It was adventure in its basest, purest form.

And she loved every inch of it.

No wonder Michael spent so much of his time here; this was his goddess, his raven-haired beauty. And she could not blame him. It was a magnificent mistress.

The men in their stark, black coats and their perfectly pressed cravats, the butlers who traveled the floor of the casino with trays laden with scotch and brandy, and the women in their revealing bodices, each a more brilliant color than the last. They were painted and primped, coiffed and colored, and Penelope wanted to be them. For one, fleeting moment, to know what it was to hold fortune in her hand. To throw the dice and know the thrill of exploit.

But it was the stained-glass mural, massive and undeniably beautiful, that had her catching her breath. A great, stunning portrait of Lucifer, chain around his ankle wrapping twice around his leg before trailing off into the abyss, his scepter, snapped in half, still held in one hand, his crown in the other. The massive angel fell, his wings no longer able to keep him in flight, headfirst into the flames of hell.

It was at once beautiful and grotesque—the perfect backdrop for this den of vice.

She kept her head down and moved through the crowd, loving the way the bodies moved her through their mass. She allowed them to guide her, and she promised herself that she would stop at the first table she found along the path.

It was the roulette table, and her heart leapt to her throat in a mix of gratitude and excitement. She knew this game. Knew its rules. Knew it was pure, unbridled luck. And she wanted to try hers.

For suddenly she felt very lucky, indeed.

She met the eyes of the tablemaster, who raised a brow and waved his long rake above the field. “Gentlemen . . . lady,” he intoned seriously, “your bets, please.”

Her hand was already in her pocket, already toying with the coins there. She pulled out a shiny gold sovereign, running her thumb across its face, watching the others at the table place their bets. Coins were set on the rich green plush all along the field, and Penelope’s eyes were drawn to a tempting, red space at the middle of the table.

Number twenty-three.

“We await the lady’s wager.”

Her eyes met the dealer’s and she reached out, tentatively, to place a coin on the baize, loving the way the gold glinted in the candlelight.

“No more bets, please.”

And then the wheel was in motion, and the ball was spinning along the gutter, the sound of ivory against steel a temptation in itself. Penelope leaned forward, eager for an unobstructed view, her breath catching in her throat.

“They say that roulette is Lucifer’s game.” The words came at her shoulder, and she could not resist turning toward the voice even as she was careful to keep her cloak pulled low over her face. “Fitting, is it not?”

The stranger placed his hand on the edge of the table, close enough to touch her, and the lingering caress was too slow to be a mistake. She snapped her hand back from the unpleasant sensation.

“Fascinating,” she said, edging away from her unwelcome companion, hoping that the single word would end their conversation. Her attention returned to the wheel, spinning in glorious red and black, too fast to keep track.

“There is a story of a Frenchman who was so caught up in the game, so tempted by the wheel, that he sold his soul to the devil to learn its secrets.”

The wheel was beginning to slow, and Penelope leaned in, understanding that poor Frenchman’s temptation. The man at her side slid one finger down the outside of her arm, sending a shiver of distaste through her and drawing her attention. “What would tempt you to sell your soul?”

She did not have the chance to reply, or to tell her neighbor to remove his hands from her person, as he was instantly yanked from his spot and tossed to the floor several feet away. She turned at the commotion to find Michael stalking the man as he scurried backward, like a crab, into the legs of a group of people who had stopped in the center of the casino floor to watch the drama unfold.

Her husband leaned down and grabbed the man by his cravat, his great hulk blocking the prone man’s face. “You will never touch a lady in this hell again,” her husband growled, raising his fist in a wicked threat.

“Goddammit, Bourne.” The words were strangled from the man’s throat as he lifted his hands to Michael’s wrists. “Lay off. She’s just a—”

Michael’s hand wrapped around the other man’s neck. “Finish the sentence, Densmore, and give me the pleasure of robbing your breath,” he said, low and close to his prey. “If I see it, or hear of you laying a hand on another female here, your membership will not be the only thing you lose. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.” He looked ready to kill, and Worth’s tale echoed through Penelope’s memory.

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

Michael tossed him back to the floor and rounded on Penelope, who moved instinctively to push back her cloak. He reached out and grabbed one of her hands, pulling her into an alcove too poorly lit for anyone to see her, stepping close to shield her from prying eyes. “And you,” he whispered, his fury unmistakable. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She met his gaze firmly, refusing to be cowed. It was time for her to act her part—the marchioness out for her adventure. “I was having a fine time before you arrived and caused a scene.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his fingers tightened around her wrists. “I caused a scene? Half of London is in this room, and you think a silly cloak will hide you from them?”